Lebensraum
by cheesecakeplz
Summary: The countryside looked perfect, heavenly, from the perspective of a failing plane. Italy was a good place to die, Ludwig hummed to himself when he found the brakes were shot. To live here would have been paradise. GerIta/Spamano. AU.
1. In which Ludwig sees an angel

**Lebensraum  
**_(n.)Adequate space in which to live, develop, or function. _

**In Which Ludwig Sees An Angel**

**Warnings: **disturbing imagery, harsh language, implications of BL

**Disclaimer**: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

The day had began as regular as any other for the Vargas siblings and their resident Spaniard.

"And now, with a tad of butter, we can—whoops! Lovi, could you pass that back to me? _Grazie_!" Feliciano chirped while stirring the massive bowl of pasta into completion; his elder sister merely scowled and grabbed a dishrag to mop the fallen butter off the floor.

"Damn it, Feli, you can't just pick stuff like this back off the ground once you've dropped it—it's unsanitary! _Gesu cristo_, I swear, you're so irresponsible..." Lovina swore aloud, casting the younger Vargas member a fierce glare. Feliciano took no notice and began singing at the top of his lungs, already in the process of cutting a fresh slice of butter. Lovina rolled her eyes at the noise.

Antonio then entered the room, wiping his bloodstained hands clean and wearing a bright smile on his well-natured face. "Mmm, something smells delicious, you two!"

Feliciano ignored him—unintentionally, of course--to hit a high note matching the record of Puccini playing in the next room of the Vargas's home in the Parma countryside. Antonio laughed, taking no offense at Feliciano's oblivion, and instead wrapped his arms around Lovina's waist.

Lovina growled in mild irritation, but made no attempt to shove him away and continued to chop the parsley into fine pieces. "Wash your hands or something, stupid. You're going to get blood all over my new dress." She muttered, allowing her fiancée to bend in and kiss her cheek once. Antonio laughed again.

"They're quite clean now, _mi amor, _and you're wearing an apron, so I shouldn't muss your outfit up. Besides, I wouldn't dream of dirtying a dress that you look so gorgeous in." The curly-haired Spaniard chuckled while moving in to press his lips to Lovina's skin again; this time, the young Italian's face flushed bright red and she smacked the man on the shoulder, sputtering with the embarrassment of flattery she had yet to become accustomed to.

"You look like a tomato!" Antonio commented brightly, dancing away from further harm with the grace of a matador. Lovina's cheeks continued to redden, thus propelling her to cut various vegetables into nearly minuscule sizes.

Feliciano had taken to whistling lazily along with the record instead of exerting energy in an operatic voice; Antonio soon joined him as he gathered several plates and glasses for the their luncheon. Neither of them noticed when the record-player began to skip. Lovina huffed, barely fighting off a smile.

The meal began a few moments later, and was nearly finished faster than it had been prepared had Lovina not chided the two men upon their sloppy eating habits, telling them to eat slower and enjoy the food rather than inhale it. Antonio had laughed but obediently followed instruction, as usual, whereas Lovina's younger brother chose to continue slurping the pasta up, claiming his taste buds relished taste very quickly.

Antonio rose from the table first, complimented the siblings upon their culinary expertise, and moseyed off to the kitchen to clean up. Lovina soon followed him, presumably to do slightly more than just wash dishes. Feliciano sat digesting and smiling to himself about the many wonders of pasta. He closed his eyes and listened to the bellowing voice of his musical idol, rocking to and fro to the music.

Suddenly, a strange hum made the music in the air tremble. Feliciano glanced up from his seat and reached over to turn off the record-player; Puccini's voice halted with a harsh snap. The younger Vargas vaguely heard Lovina yell at him from the next room to turn the record back on, but Feliciano ignored her and headed towards the door out of curiosity. The hum had begun to grow into a loud rumble--and when Feliciano turned his gaze skyward, he gasped in horror, reeling back into the house.

He had escaped seconds before a small fighter plane came reeling down to crash several meters before him in a flurry of glass, metal, and mud.

Feliciano paused several minutes for the sacred moment of shock, and then, screaming, rushed towards the wreckage to assist the fallen soldier.

* * *

Ludwig had never really liked war, no matter what reasons his elder brother gave. He had not liked it when it had brought his noble country to its knees in indebted shame only a few years ago, and he did not enjoy it now.

He would never deny he loved the order and cleanliness the military had, from the shine of leather boots to the sheen of well-polished medals. But blood was mess, and war incited a fair amount of blood—hence Ludwig's dislike.

It wasn't that he minded getting his hands dirty in combat so much as the look of mud-red on his pristine, navy blue uniform. Gilbert had mocked him for it when Ludwig first joined, but the sight of a blotch anywhere on his outfit inwardly made his stomach clench.

In any case, Ludwig certainly preferred his position in the _Luftwaffe_ over land scuffles—one might even go so far as to say he enjoyed it. The sheer noise of the air pleased him, and when Gilbert practically burst with pride when his little brother--a mere boy of eighteen at the time--walked through the door with the bright pin of war heroes upon his chest, Ludwig swore never to leave the skies without completing his mission until the day he was brought to the ground by force.

Such were Ludwig's thoughts when his plane was tore from the air as easily as a bird's wing caught by a stone, and he hadn't even seen who had shot at him. _What a loss of face. What a coward_.

Time seemed to move past slowly while his aircraft descended in streams of smoke—Ludwig glanced out the window to admire what he imagined to be his final view. His mind, although foggy with pain, registered he had been somewhere over the Italian countryside. Italy. He had always loved Italy. The weather, the people, the lifestyle—it had all been so pleasant when he had been stationed there several years ago, and seemed it had not changed much from his first encounter.

The countryside looked perfect, heavenly, from the perspective of a failing plane. _A good place to die_, Ludwig hummed to himself when he found the brakes were shot. _To live here would have been paradise_.

Something caught his gaze from below; a figure with auburn hair and a wayward curl varying from one side. The figure's apron billowed slightly in the wind, and it tilted its flawless tanned face to the sky.

Ludwig's eyes briefly met the stranger's, and he came to a realization—he must died earlier without noticing and here he was, in the presence of an angel. Heaven was the Italian countryside. He should have guessed.

And then his plane plummeted into the ground, effectively shutting his mind into white.

* * *

"_Dio mio. Dio mio_." Feliciano whimpered while picking aside pieces of debris from the fallen machine, hoping to pry out its wounded core. The Italian soon found the metal to be stubborn and he incapable of removing them by himself; luckily, Lovina and Antonio soon appeared in doorway, both looking equally disheveled.

"What in the world is going on out here? There was a noise, and..." Antonio asked aloud, his voice trailing off into silence to leave his jaw hanging mid-thought. Lovina was already yanking her younger brother from the plane's side, swearing and swatting Feliciano occasionally.

"You crazy son-ovva-bitch, what do you think you're doing, huh? That's a Nazi plane, see? Nazi!" Lovina pointed accusingly at the bright red symbol painted onto the aircraft's tail. "Goddamn, there's a bloody Kraut just sitting in that plane waiting to climb out and shoot us in the head or something! You forget how Mamma and Babbo died? _Merda_!" The Italian looked quite willing to continue her rant, but was effectively silenced by Antonio laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Germans aren't indestructible, Lovina—a fall like that would have seriously injured or killed anyone. We should check, though, just to make sure." The Spaniard explained; for once, he was not wearing his infectious smile. Lovina snarled another curse to herself before stepping away to let her fiancée pry away most of the covering material.

There was a long pause, and then Antonio spoke, his voice quiet; "Well, it's a good thing I know a thing or two about human medical procedures." Feliciano felt his stomach lurch when Antonio reached into the remains of the cockpit and took hold of a bloodied shoulder, giving it a light tug. The owner of the shoulder gave a whispered groan.

The curly-haired man hummed to himself, tilting his head to the side, as if contemplating whether or not it was worth the effort. "Lovina, get my things ready, please. It seems we have a very wounded young gentleman on our hands." Lovina opened her mouth to protest, but her lover gave a pleading look and she headed inside, grumbling muted swears.

Antonio nudged a piece of debris aside and climbed halfway into the broken machine. "Feli, I know you hate this sort of thing, but could you help me carry him inside? He's pretty tall, I can't manage him by myself." Feliciano's throat seemed to constrict at Antonio's words but he did as he was told and waited restlessly closer to the plane. Antonio bent into the cockpit further, saying calming words in his native language while drawing the wounded soldier from his seat. The pasta from lunch burned like fire in the back of Feliciano's throat. The German, a man that could be no older than he, was riddled with glass, shards of metal, and even a few bullets. Red covered the ice-blue eyes that had made contact with his own in no more than several minutes prior.

Antonio slowly removed the man's helmet to reveal blond, gelled-back hair hat was loosening to cover his forehead in strands. Feliciano whimpered and attempted placing one of the airman's arms over his shoulder, but the German gave a grunt of pain. Frightened, Feliciano scampered away and looked to the green-eyed Spaniard at his side for guidance. Said Spaniard hummed again, the slightest movement of furrowed brows being the only indication he felt under stress.

"Well," He muttered, making a face, "Well, well, well. This is going to be difficult. I haven't treated a human in years."

The German moaned again, his head rolling forward against the front of his glass-impaled jacket. "Alright, Feli, we're going to have to move quickly. Grab his arm and put it around your shoulder like you had before, but be a bit more careful--I think it might be fractured." Feliciano did as told, his movements careful and deliberate, while Antonio did the same. The man made no noise and allowed himself to be assisted into the house.

Lovina awaited them at the guest bedroom—and Antonio's office--doorway, hands on her hips and cheeks flushed with anger, but she stepped aside at first sight of blood. Antonio thanked her with a smile, releasing the wounded man onto the operating table; Lovina had removed his other non-human patient earlier--a whippet with a bandaged stomach---to its cage, where it sat barking madly at the intruders. Feliciano bent to quiet it, eyes trained on Antonio in worry.

Antonio bent over the German, humming in thought again while his hands flickered over various sections of marred skin, occasionally stopping to bandage or remove shards; Lovina hovered nearby, her nose wrinkled in disgust at the scene. Feliciano turned away to pet the dog, sniffling.

After two hours of heavy silence, the Spaniard spoke. "You know what, I think he'll pull through. It'll take a long time for him to recover fully, but we can stand another house-mate for a little while, can't we?" Antonio explained brightly, his pearl-white smile returning to his lips. Feliciano cheered with happiness, inciting the whippet to snarl. Lovina's reaction was similar to the whippet's, though perhaps a tad more verbal.

"We are _not_ having a...a German in this house!" Lovina said the word as if it were dirty, continuing on in the same manner, "_Gesu cristo_, why don't we invite over Hitler while we're at it, huh? We can all have a nice chat over some goddamned _wurst_!" The elder Vargas sibling spat, growing red again in her fury; the whippet competed for volume as she spoke, but soon found Lovina's voice could grow louder. "That—that _thing_ you just treated is a Nazi, Antonio! And one of Herr Fuhrer's favourites as well, I could guess. Just look at that blond hair! A perfect example of what a potato-bastard should be, isn't he?"

Lovina sniffled in conclusion, wiping furiously at her eyes. Antonio glanced between the wounded soldier to Lovina, eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty as he did so. Even the whippet had quieted, staring with round black eyes at the humans.

Feliciano suddenly spoke, startling the others in the room out of the stifling silence. "_Sorella, _we can't throw him out. We couldn't do that, he's..." He cast a look towards the German, finding words dry on his tongue. The stranger appeared so strong, almost unbreakable in structure—the very epitome of pride—and despite the wounds, he was flawless. His eyes had been no different; the bestial quality of them had burrowed its way into Feliciano's every thought since the very moment they had made contact.

Feliciano suddenly decided he loved him.

"Lovina, _amorcita_, your brother is right. It will only be for a little while. He'll stay in here until he's well enough to leave. ¿_Está bien_?" Antonio added slowly, taking one of Lovina's hands in his. His fiancee glanced up with red-rimmed eyes to meet his gaze.

The lovers remained in silence for a long moment, having a conversation with expression alone. Feliciano shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, awaiting their reaction.

Eventually, Lovina tore away and stomped to the door with a scowl on her suddenly tomato-red face. "That had better be the plan, Antonio! Just until the Kraut is better—and just until then. As soon as he's fine, he's out, plane or no goddamn plane. _Merda!_" With that, the Italian stormed out of the room and into the hallway, growling curses yet again.

Antonio stared after her with a serene smile and sighed before turning to Lovina's younger sibling. "Well, now that's settled, why don't you find out who our new guest is, hmm, Feliciano?" He said while feeding a small biscuit to the caged whippet; Feliciano eagerly obeyed and drew the German's identification from its place.

"His name is Ludwig. Ludwig..." He wiped the pad of his thumb against the hidden surname, but to no avail—the section of the dog-tag had been scratched away in an almost purposeful manner. Feliciano set the piece of metal at Ludwig's side, his heart fluttering in excitement. "Well, his last name is scratched out so I can't read it...but, oh, Antonio, his name is _Ludwig!_" He nearly sang the title, clutching at the unconscious German's hand. Antonio smiled in return, though his expression soon became quizzical.

"Does it matter that his name is Ludwig?"

Feliciano shook his head, grinning widely. "No, it doesn't! But Ludwig—that's such a nice name, don't you think, Antonio?"

Antonio laughed at Feliciano's reply while cleaning away the remaining traces of blood, curly bangs guarding his skepticism from the other. "Oh, it's a good one, alright. I just hope 'Ludwig' is as nice as his name. For all our sakes."

* * *

A/N: Ohoho, I love AUs. They're so much fun and they give you so much freedom to work with~

...anyway, this plot has been sitting in my head and nagging at me since forever. WWII is such an interesting time period, and I still have a lot to learn about it such as, yknow, details. So I apologize profusely for any historical inaccuracy in advance. :I

Yesssss genben!Romano. Because he's such a girl anyways, I figured why n--  
/shot

Achh, Germany always seems to get the short end of the stick in my fics. I really do love him, I swear haha. Also, fem!Romano's views are not my own, so...sorry for all her nasty comments. She, uh, doesn't like Germans for reasons I'll go into more later. I'm part German myself, so I don't particularly like writing mean stuff about them. Just putting that out there~

Translations are pretty basic...just look up a word if you don't understand it? =7=;

This fic is proooobably going to be more upbeat than Apophasis. Uh, I hope it will, anyway. I have a way of writing relatively positive stories into tragedies. I'm not so pleased how this first chapter turned out, so maybe I just won't continue it...OTL

Ah, anyhoo...please leave a review, if you would be so kind!


	2. In which Antonio is frightened

**In Which Antonio Is Frightened**

******Warnings: **strong language, implications of BL

**Disclaimer**: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

Several afternoons later, Ludwig jolted into consciousness with a harsh gasp. His eyes roved frantically about the room, and was distressed to find a fair portion of his sight foggier than dirtied glass. He caught a glance of yet another figure in white, this time a man with dark curly hair and spectacles; this alone made panic leap in his chest. This was a doctor's room. And he was on an operating table. He had been captured. Captured, and ready to be made into a human experiment, he was certain of it...!

Ludwig willed himself into a logical state of calm with a deep breath. _Get the facts first. Panic later_.

From the amount of pain every small movement brought, Ludwig could easily discern he was certainly not dead, and this was certainly not heaven. He wondered briefly if he was still located in the Italian countryside; the sight from the window seemed vaguely rural, but he couldn't be sure, with the way his eyes—or eye, the other seemed to be bandaged--were behaving. He was pleased to find he could remember his ranking, place of birth, date of birth, the names of his three dogs, plane number, and family members. Ludwig breathed a sigh of relief. _Good. No significant memory loss._

The German froze. His surname.

Why couldn't he remember his surname?

Ludwig felt his chest begin to rise and fall at a quicker pace as his worry grew. What else had he forgotten? Or worse, what had he forgotten to remember? Fear paralyzed every sane thought in his mind as he rifled through his memories, desperate to regain what he had lost.

Suddenly, Ludwig became aware of the fact someone was speaking to him in nearly intelligible, broken German--his neck did not allow him to turn in the speaker's direction, so he took to staring in the voice's general vicinity. It was the curly haired doctor again, sporting a dazzling smile that matched the colour of his medical jacket and made Ludwig want to cringe from the brightness. "Thank goodness you're awake—I thought you had died earlier, and I was almost ready to throw you off the table! Lucky I didn't, huh? Well, of course it's lucky, because you're certainly not dead, Señor!" The man grinned as he tapped his pen several times to Ludwig's shoulder. Ludwig automatically lifted his hand to his gun holster, only to find it empty. The well-tanned doctor seemed to take no notice and jotted a few lines messily down onto his clipboard. "Feliciano will be so happy when I tell him you're okay. He was very concerned for you."

Ludwig subtly lifted two fingers to his temples, attempting to rub away some amount of pain; the doctor had not bothered to lower his voice, and the noise made Ludwig's brain throb in agony. The other—Ludwig supposed he was a Spaniard, judging by his accent—let his smile fall temporarily while he observed his patient, humming in thought. The sound reminded Ludwig of his plane, and the mere memory of the machine made his stomach lurch.

"Is your head hurting, _chico_?" The Spaniard questioned in his native language. Ludwig squinted at him in confusion, having understood very little of the inquiry.

"Vhat?"

"Ay, sorry. I forgot." The curly-haired man began smiling again, switching back into choppy German; "Your head, is it very painful?"

Ludwig thought for a moment as his hand fell to his side; the small action had tired him considerably. He blinked the urge to sleep from his eyes. "Only a little."

The Spaniard clapped in triumph—the sound rang in Ludwig's ears—and began grinning wider than before. Again, he did not take any notice of Ludwig's reaction and instead chose to wave his arms with a passionate flourish. "_Bueno_! I knew animal anesthetic would work! It was the only type I had around at the time--I hope you don't mind. My last patient was a dog, you see." Ludwig opened his mouth to ask of his whereabouts when the doctor drew his glasses from his face and extended a hand, beaming with the height of his success. "Dr. Antonio Fernandez Corredio, at your service!"

Ludwig glanced from Antonio's hand to his well-mannered face and decided that his life had most likely been saved by the obviously thick-headed doctor. However, both his natural suspicion of unfounded kindness and cast-bound arm refrained him from shaking the man's hand—instead Ludwig resorted to a curt bow of the head and a quiet, "nice to meet you."

Antonio seemed entirely unfazed by the lack of companionship in the German and withdrew his hand, teeth glittering in the afternoon sun. "Your name's Ludwig, right?" Ludwig nodded again, the unvoiced question of his surname burning at in the corner of his mind.

"_Ja_. I am Ludwig. Just...Ludwig." The German finished lamely, directing his gaze to where his name-tag should have been located. Only a pristine button-down shirt stared back.

As much as he appreciated the cleanliness of his outfit, Ludwig did not appreciate the fact his shirt had been changed without his consent and his information missing from his person.

Antonio snapped his fingers in recognition as he spun around to rummage through a few drawers near the back of the room. "Oh, right—if you're wondering where your information is, Feliciano has it. He'll give it back if you asked, I bet. Want me to call him in?"

Ludwig again began to reply, intending to tell the Spaniard he was merely going to rest, but Antonio was already in the process of calling out for 'Feliciano'. The noise made Ludwig want to groan, but for manner's sake, he remained quiet. That, and he was curious as to who his potential rescuers were.

"Ve, I just got back from the store! The shopkeeper was really nice, too—he gave me some extra zucchinis! By the way, Lovina is getting some more of the groceries from the car, Antonio, so I'd go help her out if I were you!" A lilting, breathy voice came from outside the office; Antonio smiled and stuck his head out the doorway. "Speak of the devil, there he is! Feliciano, I've got a surprise for you today! Come on in!" The curly-haired doctor exclaimed, waving Feliciano over. Ludwig briefly heard the sound of a bag being placed on a counter-top before rapid footsteps heading in his direction.

And then the angel from before appeared in the doorway, smiling wider than a child at Christmastime.

A foreign, disconcerting feeling of unfounded happiness appeared in Ludwig's chest at the sight of him, as if he _knew_ this was his rescuer--or perhaps something more significant. What significance a boy looking less useful than a crippled horse could have to him, Ludwig had no idea; nevertheless, the Italian certainly instilled an odd emotion--

Until Ludwig realized the angel was a male.

Ludwig tore his eyes away and stared at his feet, cheeks flushing pink.

A man. The angel was a man. And here Ludwig had been thinking _such thoughts_--

"Ve, ve, you're awake! Oh, this is such a great day! I'm so glad you're alright, Ludwig!" Feliciano said excitedly, racing to Ludwig's side and taking the German's uninjured hand in his. Ludwig automatically felt the urge to recoil but refrained, continuing to stare at anything other than the Italian by his bed. He then cleared his throat, desperate to save face; Feliciano grinned, leaning in closer so that his strange wayward curl bounced lazily nearby Ludwig's nose. Again, the German resisted drawing away.

"I was so worried! I sat by your side every morning and read to you before I had to go to work, I really did! Here's the book, see?" The Italian glanced around for a moment, searching for the novel. After a minute, he gave up and turned to grin at the wounded German; Ludwig was then able to mentally note the fact Feliciano had approximately eight freckles from the bridge of his nose to his cheeks, and his eyes were heavily lidded with very dark, very long eyelashes. The distance between the two was nearly non-existant. Ludwig cleared his throat. Feliciano ignored him and began prattling on again.

"It's lucky you landed here, Ludwig, because Antonio is a doctor!" The brunet paused to laugh—a nervous noise that both inspired irritation and interest; "Well, he used to be, back in his old country, but he had to leave because he thought there would be a war or something, I think. Now he mostly just tends livestock and dogs and sometimes little injuries from the people here in Parma, and he's my sister's fiancee. They've been together for a while now, but he just recently proposed--it was adorable!" Feliciano paused for breath, grinning as he glanced out the nearby window. It was then Ludwig realized the Italian had been speaking completely flawless German.

"Excuse me, Herr Feliciano." Ludwig began before Feliciano sparked up yet another one-sided conversation; the Italian in question, however, went silent at his voice and directed his gaze at Ludwig with unwavering interest. Ludwig coughed once and continued. "Your house...it is located in Parma, Italy?" Feliciano nodded enthusiastically, his attention devoted to the German's every word. "How is it that you speak German so well?"

The magnetism of Ludwig's voice wavered; Feliciano gave another jittery chuckle and stood, his hand gestures becoming far milder. The eye-contact between the men broke. "Near the end of the Great War, my Mamma and Babbo were certain the Germans would win, so they taught Lovina and I almost everything there was to know about German culture, the history, and the language. They both died before I could learn it all, so I ended up teaching myself." The Italian threw a smile briefly in Ludwig's direction. Ludwig nodded in encouragement, although Feliciano seemed to have a tiring influence on him; his eyelids began to drift closed several times before he forced himself to remain alert and attentive. "All of it interested me, though, so I've always wanted to go to Germany." He laughed. "But my work keeps me mostly in the country. I haven't been further north than Ticino. It's a real shame."

Ludwig stifled a yawn and rubbed at his suddenly sore eyes; again, the gesture exhausted him, and his hand fell limp upon his chest. Feliciano blinked, looking upon Ludwig with fondness alike to one of his dogs. Ludwig was confused by it, but his less-than-mediocre physical and mental state prevented him from further inquiry.

"I'm glad you're okay."

The words had been natural coming from the obviously soft-hearted Italian, but they startled Ludwig anyway. He hadn't heard those words since his brother had found him by the river, in Freiburg--

His brother. Gilbert--what was his last name? It was different from Ludwig's—there had been an error concerning the birth certificates, with Gilbert's reading, '_Gilbert Fritz Beillschmidt_' and Ludwig's reading '_Ludwig_--'

Ludwig what?

"I am too, Herr Feliciano."

Ludwig promptly lost consciousness, and would not awaken for another two days.

* * *

"Stupid potato freak, clogging up our house and eating our food. We barely get by as it is. I bet he can't even digest anything other than wurst and potatoes." Lovina muttered darkly aloud as she minced five carrots into oblivion. Antonio hummed, neutral on the matter, and gently tightened his grip around his fiancee's waist as an act of comfort. Lovina let her head recline onto his shoulder—a gesture of affection reserved for when the two were completely alone without any chance of being interrupted--and sighed.

Antonio eased the knife from her fingers and raised the back of her hand to his lips. "Feliciano knows a good person when he sees one, _mi amor_. I'm quite sure Ludwig's not like the rest of them." He said quietly into her skin, green eyes flickering up to meet his future wife's. Lovina glared down at him for a moment before sighing again. "Yeah, well, the ones at town are certainly bad enough. Damn them and their shiny black boots, thinking they own the place." She grumbled while Antonio rose to kiss her cheek. She did not pull away, or swear, or swat his shoulder in embarrassment—in the privacy of the kitchen, Lovina allowed the curly-haired Spaniard to continue, placing his lips upon her own.

"I saw the Brit today." Lovina confessed after a long, quiet moment; Antonio froze in her embrace. Lovina heard him swallow and choke out a laugh—the sure-fire sign he was fearful. She paused, almost feeling as though she was reciting a death sentence. "He was at the marketplace, posing as a German officer with that Dutchman. It was definitely him, Antonio." Again, Antonio's chest rumbled with paranoia and laughter. "I bet you knew because of the eyebrows, right?" Lovina merely frowned into her fiancee's chest. Antonio continued, his voice wavering in harried emotion; "It's difficult to concentrate on anything else when those eyebrows are there, isn't it? They're certainly distracting!" His laughter subsided into suffocating silence. Lovina shifted uncomfortably in the Spaniard's arms, reconsidering her decision to tell him about the Brit and the Dutchman.

Antonio spoke again; his tone had lowered into a whisper, quiet enough that Lovina nearly thought he was speaking to himself: "He hasn't given up. He hasn't given up, after all these years. Neither of them have." He brushed a free hand through his hair and wheezed out another chuckle. "They like to finish what they started, don't they?"

"Apparently, yeah." Lovina's fingers lightly traced the scars she knew layered thick beneath his shirt. Antonio took no notice and gave a strained smile. "Do you suppose they'll be able to find me here?"

His fiancee drew close and went onto her toes to lean her forehead to his in a comforting gesture. Antonio's smile faded. "I'll never let them take you, Antonio. They won't even know you're here. And if they come, let them, 'cause I'll beat their heads in with...with a rolling pin, or something. Anyway, you'll be safe. I'll make sure of it. _Capisce_?"

A silence.

Antonio's grin slowly returned as he tilted his chin to capture Lovina's lips. "_Gracias_, Lovi." The Italian felt the urge to protest, but they were still quite alone and she felt badly for upsetting him in the first place. Therefore, she went rather passionately into the kiss and laced her fingers behind his neck and--

"_Sorella_!"

Lovina swore aloud, tearing abruptly away from her fiancee and blushing a colour thought only achievable by tomatoes. Antonio's jaw remained slightly agape while he processed exactly what had just happened, and Feliciano began making extremely large hand motions, his face bright with excitement. "_Sorella_, Antonio, Ludwig's awake again! He's kind of still half-asleep, but the first thing he said was something like 'food', so I think he's just really hungry!" The younger Vargas sibling chirped, glancing between his sister and her fiancee with a lazy smile. Antonio blinked. Lovina cursed again, her hands balling into fists. "_Gesù Cristo, _read the atmosphere for once, will you?"

"But Lovi, I looked and looked and I couldn't find that book anywhere!"

Antonio grinned and nodded, just as clueless as the other man in the room. Lovina's face briefly met her palm before she turned to dice the remaining vegetables at the counter. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. You two are hopeless. Anyway, the Kraut's up, huh? I hope he doesn't expect to eat at _this_ table." She ground out, casting a fierce glare to the Spaniard at her side. Antonio, as per usual, took absolutely no notice and grinned. "Of course he should sit with us! He hasn't even met you properly yet, Lovi!" Lovina's knife landed on the chopping board with a harsh thud. Feliciano's smile faltered.

"I don't want to have _anything_ to do with him, Antonio. We established this earlier." The Italian hissed, each chop of the knife enunciated and brutal. Antonio continued to beam devotedly in her direction before his face melted into that of deep thought. "Wait. How would he get to the table? We can't carry him, and I don't have a wheelchair..."

Lovina threw up her arms and humorlessly barked out a laugh. "Problem solved! Feliciano can deliver a plate to him, seeing as he's so entranced with the potato basta--" Her tirade was cut short by a loud knock to the door; Antonio's lips turned slightly downward. Feliciano bolted out of the room before either of his housemates could protest and threw open the front door, wearing his usual grin.

"Ciao! Feliciano Vargas, at your servi—oh, it's you, Vash! Hello, ve!" The Italian exclaimed, his arms already halfway to the man's shoulders for a friendly hug. Vash, a stern young man of eighteen hailing from Switzerland, did not accept the embrace and abruptly moved himself to the side. Feliciano stumbled forward a couple steps, but quickly righted himself and beamed lazily in the Swiss man's direction. Vash adjusted his tie and cleared his throat with an air of barely suppressed importance.

"Vargas, as much as I hate to interrupt you at dinnertime, or any other time for that matter, I have been asked to retrieve you on urgent business. Karpusi became ill today and his position requires immediate replacement for the remainder of the evening." The sharp-eyed blond explained, business-like in every syllable spoken. Feliciano cast a regretful glance over his shoulder and whined. "It's Sunday though, Vash...can't it wait till tomorrow?"

"Though I am pleased to find you remember the day of the week, your presence is regretfully required. Time is money, Vargas, and I do not like to waste money, as you well know." Vash retorted curtly while glancing every so often at the mess of Ludwig's plane Antonio had not managed to clear away. Feliciano followed his gaze and gave his lilting, nervous laugh. "That's my, uh, new sculpture, Vash-- do you like it? I made it with, uhm, metal scraps some nice Germans gave me the other day, ve!" The Italian explained hurriedly; Vash silenced him with a brief glare.

"Very nice. Now, your decision, Vargas."

"What options do I have, again?"

"Come with me now or lose your job and be drafted into the army. Your choice."

In the moment Vash spoke the word 'drafted', Feliciano was already climbing into the car and calling his goodbyes to Lovina and Antonio. Vash again glanced suspiciously over to the fallen plane before following Feliciano to the car and sliding into the front seat. They drove off into the night without a backward glance, as Vash was concerned for wasting oil, and money.

Antonio cast Lovina a lopsided, uncertain smile. Lovina did not return the gesture and instead chose to scowl out the doorway.

"Well, time to feed the German, huh, Lovi?"

If looks could kill, Antonio would have been dead long ago.

* * *

A/N: ...So I decided to continue Lebensraum, as you can see lol. It was so much fun to write and the idea wouldn't get out of my head, so here you go. I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY.

I decided to introduce the two antagonists—England and Holland! With Holland's recent introduction and Holland-Spain history country-wise, I really wanted to use him somehow in this story. Also, he and England would make a pretty badass team, amirite? xD

Poor Spain. This is what he gets for being my favourite character. And because Ludwig's surname hasn't been revealed yet, I'm using it as a plot device! Yay for spur of the moment writing decisions!

Anyway, please review! 3


	3. In which They create a plan

**In Which a Dutchman and an Englishman Create a Plan**

**Warnings**: strong language, implications, mentions of alcohol and nicotine

**Disclaimer**: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

Even by Ludwig's standards, the woman standing in the doorway with a bowl of minestrone in her hands could be considered beautiful--heavenly, even. Her dark hair, a deep russet colour that complimented her tanned complexion, brushed her shoulders, and the sheer smoothness of it was only broken by the lone veering curl she shared with Feliciano. The sleek beige dress she wore was also very becoming, and the image she presented was one that Ludwig found to be very attractive indeed—or perhaps it was simply because she appeared almost as the very image of a female Feliciano. Ludwig shook that image from his mind as soon as it had entered.

Either way, her brother hadn't inherited her personality in the slightest.

"Listen, you blond bastard, I haven't got the time to listening to you bitch and moan about what you think of my minestrone," The woman began, her mouth curled into a sneer as she slammed the bowl onto the side-table, "So I'm gonna leave it here and by the time I get back this damn thing had better be empty. _Capiche_?"

She hadn't spoken German. Ludwig hadn't understood a word.

"_E-Es tut mir leid. Ich verstehe nicht_."

The Italian barked out a laugh and placed her hands on her hips. "Oh, you're sorry you didn't understand, huh? Well, that's a piss-poor shame, isn't it, Mr. Nazi?"

Ludwig's brow furrowed in mild frustration. His vision blurred with hunger and fatigue. Every syllable that came from the woman's mouth was practically spat, and they scathed his sore head from their noise; he took to rubbing his temples with two fingers, a gesture he now believed to be common practice in the company of this household. The chef's irritation was piqued at the sight, and she gritted her teeth audibly.

"Look at you, rubbing your forehead. What a rude jerk. I oughta shove you off the table now and leave Antonio the trouble of further treating you." She hissed, though she made no movement near the German. Ludwig raised his eyebrows at her, attempting to understand bits and pieces of her words. He had caught the name 'Antonio', but...

"I'm only going to speak your vomit-language now because otherwise I'm not going to make myself _perfectly_ clear." The brunette stepped forward in a menacing stance before flinching under Ludwig's unintentional glare and retreating a few paces. She fidgeted, attempting to meet Ludwig's eyes and remain in her position as top status in the room--Ludwig almost wanted to laugh at the sight, though perhaps it was lack of nutrition and a dizzy conscience. It was a long time before the woman was satisfied with the distance between the two of them, though when she was, she spoke; "Listen, you. _I_ am going to pretend you don't exist. _You_ are going to keep your grimy mitts off my brother and act like _you_ don't exist, and once you're well enough to stand, you're out of here." The threat had been in German this time, and Ludwig nodded his head in somber understanding.

"_Ja_. I'll be out of your house as soon as possible, Frau, erm...what was your name, again? I apologize, but I do not remember." Ludwig inquired as gently as possible while attempting to bring the bowl of minestrone onto his lap. The brunette before him fixed a long glare upon the German and turned a deep, angry red. "You haughty bastard. You self-righteous, vile, son of a--"

"_Hola_! I see you've met Lovina, Ludwig!" Antonio exclaimed, stepping into the tension-filled room as if entering a spa. Ludwig let out a sigh of relief that he had not realized he had been holding. "Herr Fernandez Corredio, _guten abend_. Yes, I have met Frau Lovina. It's...a pleasure."

"You dare to call me by my first name, you gel-headed potato?"

Antonio laughed, carefree, as he placed an arm around Lovina's waist that was soon smacked away. The Spaniard took no notice and continued grinning. "You two are going to get along splendidly, I can tell. How's the minestrone? It's good, isn't it? The tomatoes came from the garden of yours truly, but Lovina made it herself. She's a lovely cook!" Lovina was blushing with the simple compliment, sputtering out bits of denial. Ludwig eyed the minestrone and, hesitantly, drew the spoon to his mouth.

It was by far one of the best things he had tasted in all his twenty years of life; a close second, even, to his Aunt Elisaveta's _Kuglóf_. And that was a significant comparison.

"It's delicious." Were Ludwig's only words before his stomach overtook his manners, forcing him to dig into the soup far quicker than he would have liked. Lovina smirked in silent approval. However, it was not more than five minutes before the German felt the dinner return, and he promptly vomited into the medical basin beside his bed.

"I'm very sorry—the minestrone was so rich, my stomach is not used to such things—it wasn't the taste, I swear--" Ludwig croaked after regaining his breath, though he already knew Lovina had taken the action personally. Antonio began to wave it off before his fiancee interrupted, her tone low with rage; "I told you he could only digest wurst and potatoes, Antonio. He doesn't appreciate anything actually good, goddamn him!" She hissed in her native language as she fled the room, her hands balled into fists and her face redder than the minestrone. Antonio sighed and began to clean.

"I apologize profusely, Herr Fernandez Corredio—I had not intended to offend Frau Lovina so. And I apologize also for the trouble and mess I have caused. Truthfully, I do. I will contact someone tomorrow and relieve you of my presence as soon as possible." Ludwig explained quickly, his eyebrows furrowed and his face downcast with shame. Antonio just laughed. Ludwig jerked his head upright, startled by the reply. "Ay, Ludwig. Lovina will understand, and you've barely recovered. Just look at you; you probably can't even walk." The Spaniard said as he paused to grin and hand a clean cloth up to the blonde. "There's no need to leave so quickly. You're injured, and we've got plenty of room for you to recover in."

Ludwig frowned after wiping his face clean. "You're being so kind. Why?"

Antonio's returning laugh was more of a weak chuckle, and his bright green eyes seemed to gain a faraway look. "Because I was in your situation once, Ludwig. It's only right to return the favor for someone else in need, _si_?"

The recumbent German gave a hum of agreement after giving the question some thought. "I suppose you're right. In any case, thank you, Herr Fernandez Corredio."

Antonio rose and patted Ludwig's injured hand, grinning lazily again. "I'll get you another something milder to eat, alright, Ludwig? I'll be back later after I've calmed Lovina down." He promised with a smile, freezing at the doorway. "Oh, and there's a jug of fresh water at your side-table if you're thirsty. _Adios _for now!"

Before Ludwig could say any more, the curly-haired Spaniard was gone. He then decided to help himself to the water while he waited, all the while staring accusingly at the empty bowl of minestrone.

* * *

"We've looked everywhere for that bloody bastard—everywhere, Theo!" Arthur exploded, seizing a fist-full of papers and throwing them spitefully at the map before him. Theodoor watched the Englishman down yet another bottle of scotch before impassively placed a cigarette between his teeth. Soon after, the wafting smell of smoke began to clog the room.

Arthur turned with bloodshot eyes to glare at his Dutch companion. "Put that damn thing out, Theodoor. You know full well I'm allergic."

"Sorry." Theodoor replied in monotone--though he was not apologetic in the slightest—and disregarded Arthur's plea, breathing out a ring of gray. Arthur swore and kicked at the mahogany desk before him. "No one listens to a word I say."

"Nope." Theodoor agreed flatly, reaching forward to rifle through some papers. The Englishman squawked in indignation and leaped to his feet, kicking over a chair afterward. "That includes you, Theodoor—_you_ never listen to me, either!" The Dutchman glanced up from his research with narrowed silver eyes. "Should I be? I didn't think you were sayin' anything important." With that, Theodoor returned to work, intending to ignore any other words from the blonde.

He felt a sharp tug at the end of his scarf and automatically looked to the offender, only to find a rather infuriated Englishman with abnormally large eyebrows as the culprit. Theodoor could practically feel them from where he sat. Said Englishman took in a deep breath, grinning lopsidedly and alcohol reeking from his skin. "_You_ want Antonio dead. _I _want Antonio dead. We are only going to achieve this," Here Arthur gave a strange giggle that made Theodoor's spine crawl. "If we work together, see? You do see what I mean, don't you Theo, old chap?" The switchblade in Arthur's fingers clicked in time to the mens' heartbeats. Theodoor nodded solemnly, knowing exactly what Arthur was capable of when assisted with a sharp object. "I gotcha. But it's like you said, Arthur..." The sleek Dutchman halted to tap the cinders of his cigarette onto the ground. Arthur released the fringe of his 'business partner's scarf and waited patiently for more.

"...The Spaniard's hidden himself real good this time. Swept up his tracks with his tail before putting it between his legs, no doubt." Arthur burst into drunken laughter, slamming his bottle of scotch where Theodoor's hand had formerly laid. Theodoor continued, somehow finding his own lips twitching upward. "But he's gonna keep that do-good mentality of his wherever he goes, no matter what we do to him each time we find him. Wouldn't matter if we beat the hell out of him again...which is why this time, we--"

"We kill 'im!" Arthur burst in excitedly, his rosy cheeks flushing with glee. _Drunk out of his mind and still wielding that switchblade_, his companion noted mentally. "We kill the bloody fool, and th-then there's no running away! Ha ha! _That _will teach him!"

Theodoor glanced down to the faded Polaroid picture in his fingers depicting a handsome young man with dark hair that curled wildly about and sections messily pulled away into a ponytail; the man—or perhaps even boy—had his arms around a beautiful blonde woman with a bow in her hair, though the gesture seemed more familial than romantic. Theodoor rubbed the pad of his thumb across the young woman's face before sweeping the photograph into an inner pocket of his jacket. "Yes. That will teach him."

* * *

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Lovina sobbed into the pillow while her fiancee rubbed a soothing rhythm onto her back. The Italian only froze to cast Antonio what was meant to be a scathing glare; Antonio merely offered a weak smile of support before she turned away and continued to cry unabashedly.

"_Querida_, I know I'm stupid, but I apologized, _si_? What else can I do to make it better?" He inquired, scooting closer and losing his smile to a frown of concern.

"You could start with it not being your fault, _bastardo,_" Lovina snapped, wiping angrily at her tomato-red cheeks, "Because it's not this time, as rare as that is." Antonio's grin returned, and he bent to embrace her with a sigh of contentment. Lovina did not resist, choosing to wallow in self-pity and her fiancee's unconditional adoration instead. Antonio soon remembered exactly why he was hugging Lovina in the first place and moved to meet her eyes. "Lovi, what's the matter, then? Is this about Feliciano leaving on a Sunday? Because I know it's important to you for us all to be together on a Sunday, and it is really very nice, but Feliciano's job is important too, so--"

Lovina interrupted him with a particularly loud hiccup and batted at his shoulder. "Bastard! No, it's not that!" She growled, hiding her face in her arms. Antonio cuddled closer and frowned, oblivious. "Is this about the tomatoes, then?"

"No."

"The potatoes?"

"You're getting there, _idiota_."

Antonio thought for a long moment, careful in his response; "Is this about the minestrone?" It had been a lucky guess, and one said with a handsome smile, but Lovina burst into tears all over again anyway. Antonio's smile fell, confusion written all over his face. "_Querida_? Was I right?"

Lovina mumbled an affirmative barely loud enough for her fiancee to hear. Antonio laid beside her and propped his cheek on his hand, eyebrows furrowed; their bed creaked beneath him at the movement. "Hey, now. You know he didn't mean to upchuck, Lovi." He explained carefully, petting her hair in an act of consolation, but again, Lovina swatted his hand away.

"He's an insensitive asshole and I don't want him in my house. End of story." She snarled into the sheets, her head tilted at an angle Antonio could tell exactly how furious she was. The Spaniard's face remained set in a frown. This was certainly a first, as he always caved to her every request--

"I'm sorry, Lovi, but I can't do that. I mean, think about it, _mi amor..._would we ever be engaged if you had thrown _me_ out?" Lovina blinked in surprise. Antonio gave a small smile, nudging the Italian's shoulder gently. "Well?"

Lovina ground her teeth and buried her face into the bed, cheeks flushing red once again. "That hasn't got anything to do with this, you jerk." Antonio chuckled as he began to smooth down her hair for a second time; Lovina made no attempt to stop him. "Maybe not, but you'd feel guilty if you kicked out Señor Ludwig, wouldn't you?"

"I most certainly would _not_."

"Oh, I think you'd find you would, Lovi. Feli really likes him, you know." The brunet continued pleasantly while his fiancee fixed him with a glare. Antonio replied with a smile so sincere that it almost made Lovina want to smile back.

Almost.

"Shut up, Antonio. And wipe that stupid smirk off your face."

Antonio merely chuckled, bending to kiss the grouchy Italian's warm cheek. Lovina turned at the last moment, having prepared a new barrage of insults, but instead met the Spaniard's lips—and in the moments following, Lovina found herself rather incapable of resisting.

_ Stupid Ludwig. Stupid Feliciano. Stupid Antonio and his damn passion and his damn kisses and his damn adorable face and--_

"_Te amo_, Lovi. And thank you again for saving my life."

"You don't need to thank me for something that happened four years ago, idiot." Antonio laughed quietly and entwined their fingers between them; Lovina again rejected her common sense and let her head rest on his shoulder.

"And I guess I love you, too, or something. Damn it."

* * *

A/N: Oh my god, Holland (in this story, Theodoor) and England are so much fun to write as a Spain-hunting team!

…  
...that sounded worse than I intended. Sorry, Spain.

On another note, Germany is really, really hard to portray correctly. I tried to make him seem a little more polite because he's younger than Spain and Romano/a in this fic, but I think I failed and he turned out just really boring. Whoops.

Anyhoo, please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Any criticisms (note; not flaming haha) would be greatly appreciated. Thank you! :D


	4. In which Lovina tells a lie

**In Which Lovina Tells a Lie**

**Warnings**: harsh language, violence, mentions of nicotine, implications of BL

**Disclaimer**: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

A barking cough. The sleek man with the silver-black eyes hovering by the doorway, his scarf hanging haphazardly around his neck and his chest still with suspensefully held breath. The woman in the bed curling to her side, her thin cheeks turning the tell-tale deathly white as she coughed her lungs raw.

And Antonio being helpless to stop it, try as he might.

His hands floundered to catch the red bow as it distangled itself from her once-silky hair. The man at the doorway shifted onto his other foot, the cigarette falling from his lips to the floor with a muted hiss.

That hiss. The last breath of air. Antonio felt the woman's hand go slack in his. Her pulse slowed into peaceful stillness, and her face melted gratefully to have been spared further pain. Antonio laid her fingers slowly to her side, hating the way the caked red felt against his skin. He turned to the man in the doorway, eyes wide and utterly, utterly horrified with his lack of life-saving ability.

"I...I thought I could...I didn't know she would just..."

The man at the doorway drew in a breath and stepped forward, gray eyes calculating the situation but not comprehending a single trait. He froze before Antonio with hands in his pockets and breath smelling of stale smoke and gardens. Antonio remembered the scent. He remembered the voice, low with emotion he seldom saw from his friend. He remembered the way the doorway-man bent to test his sister's pulse; "You promised me you could save her."

Antonio's hand reclined to rest at his own collarbone, and he felt colder than the dead woman's skin. He choked out his own words. "I'm sorry. I thought I could help her. I'm sorry."

The silver-eyed Dutchman's movements had been so sharp that Antonio barely felt the fact he had been struck. He fell against the wall and felt his arm pop in protest. The Dutchman advanced, his face contorted with the most expression Antonio had ever observed from him.

Antonio allowed himself to be thrown to the ground and barraged with fists. He could only repeat apologies, hearing his own blood rushing around in his head and his own helpless words falling against the smooth ground of his own home to replay back at him in full force.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

"Antonio, damn it, wake up!"

The Spaniard sat up with a painful gasp to find Lovina's concerned face hovering nearby. His hands were slick with sweat when they ran through his hair, and he cast a quick glance around the room. Good. Still in Parma.

"Antonio, look at me. Are you okay?" Lovina's not-so-whispered voice drew his attention; he obeyed and grinned nervously at her, willing himself to stop shivering. "I'm fine, _querida_, just fine. A nightmare is all." Her facial expression didn't change out of a stern frown. He soon broke under her stare and shifted closer, his stomach feeling tumultuous with the remains of his dream.

Lovina's sleep-warm arms wrapped hesitantly around his shoulders to lace behind them in a somewhat awkward embrace. Antonio laughed and leaned against the comfort his fiancee gave, eyes flickering to the clock on the wall—four o'clock in the morning. "What was it about this time?" Lovina asked after a long silence; her voice was loud in the dark, even if she had intended it to be quiet.

Antonio fidgeted uncomfortably in Lovina's arms, feeling cold sweat dampen his ruined back, enunciating the letters that had been written onto the skin with a cruel English hand. Lovina waited, oddly patient, and took to running her fingers through his hair to busy herself. "It was about my friend." Antonio said suddenly, the images still vivid in his conscious. "The one I told you about a while back-the one who died of tuberculosis. Louise. We had known each other for a long time, and we were," Here his voice stumbled, and he was forced to take an extra, fluttering breath to regain stability, "we were really close, you know? Her brother, Theodoor—the Dutchman—he and I never got along. At _all_." The Spaniard laughed while he felt Lovina run her hand lower subconsciously to trace the lines of his marred back. He continued, wanting to speak in exchange for thinking; "She got tuberculosis, like I told you, and the Dutchman, he got angry, and...the dream was about that." He finished flatly, allowing his head to fall onto Lovina's shoulder with a sigh and a not-at-all humorous chuckle.

Lovina held him closer, leaning against the headboard with a snort. "You're a stupid bastard, did you know that?" Antonio laughed again. Lovina gave a brief kiss to his forehead and went on with blushing cheeks; "That's all in the past, Antonio. I already told you-no goddamn Brit or Dutchman is going to come within two feet of you-I said I'd make sure, damn it. I'm better than my stupid brother at firing a gun, and you know that. So live in the now...or...or something." The Italian trailed off weakly, driven into shyness with an attempt to be consoling. Antonio grinned and drew her hand to his lips. "Thanks, Lovi. You're too kind."

"Yeah, well, same to you, moron. Forget about it and think of tomatoes instead." She paused to glance at the clock; "_Merda_, it's already four-thirty in the morning, and I've got work tomorrow-get to sleep now, damn it."

"Yes, Lovi. Thank you."

Lovina grumbled a response and laid down, pulling the covers high over her head. Antonio did the same, only stopping to stare adoringly at the woman beside him. "And Lovi?"

"Yeah, what?"

"_Te amo_."

Lovina hid her smile into her pillow while swatting the Spaniard on the arm. "_Anch'io ti amo, bastardo_."

For the remainder of the morning, Antonio dreamed of fields of tomatoes and the woman with mahogany hair who saved his life.

* * *

"Once upon a time, in a castle far, far away, there lived a young princess who loved pasta..."

Ludwig blinked, his eyes straining to adjust to the light that flooded the room. Once enabled to take in the brightness, he became aware of another presence by his bed; automatically he turned, ready to attack...before he was met with the sweet, smiling face of Feliciano, who completely disregarded the fact Ludwig had grabbed the jug from the bedside table and was holding it in a position to strike an offender across the head. No, the Italian just kept reading the story and grinning lazily as ever.

It was only when Ludwig set the jug back in its proper place that Feliciano looked up to beam with the strength of one hundred suns in the German's direction. He practically tossed the little book away and drew closer, already beginning to babble away excitedly; "Ooh, Ludwig, good morning! Wow, you wake up really early—really, you do! I just started reading to you and you're awake already, ve! I only find that a little odd because before, you just slept till three in the afternoon! But I can see how you could wake up early like this, it definitely suits you. I bet you're really punctual, aren't you, ve?"

Ludwig cleared his throat and brought himself back onto his elbows, eyebrows low as he thought through how to answer in a correct and efficient fashion. Feliciano's bright brown eyes stared expectantly at him as if he was about to reveal all the secrets of the universe. In fact, it was slightly disconcerting. Ludwig coughed. Feliciano immediately poured him a glass of water and held it out to him, staring again with a look that reminded Ludwig of Berlitz, his Doberman. "I...yes, I make a point of being punctual. Unfortunately, circumstances have forced me to...not be as punctual as I would like, but never the less, I try." _What a terrible response_, Ludwig thought miserably to himself as he sipped at the water Feliciano had handed to him.

Feliciano, however, certainly did not seem deterred in the slightest and smiled. "I'm not punctual at all! " He paused to pick a bread roll from his lap and bit into it enthusiastically before continuing; "But Vash gets me into shape for my job—oh, I work in communications, by the way—and he makes sure I do my work and that sort of thing, ve."

Ludwig blinked. "Communications?"

Feliciano hummed in confirmation as he chewed the remainder of his breakfast, brushing the crumbs from his navy blue uniform, but otherwise gave no further elaboration. Once the Italian finished, he leaped to his feet and grinned, once again exposing blinding-white teeth. "Well, Ludwig, speaking of punctuality, I should probably go wake up my sister—she likes to sleep in, but she has to open the cafe, ve! So..." Here he bent and pressed an ephemeral kiss to Ludwig's pale cheek, soon causing it to go deeply red, "_Arrivederci_! That means I'll see you later. Okay? Okay! _Arrivederci_, ve!"

And with that, the enthusiastic Italian whirlwind known as Feliciano bounded out of the room, leaving a very culturally confused German to mull over exactly what had just happened.

Ludwig automatically touched the place on his warm cheek where Feliciano's lips had grazed, all the while staring blankly at the doorway. The noises outside it were muted. The only thing that mattered to Ludwig were the questions that had suddenly ignited in his head, making his vision smoggy and his heartbeat quicken. His uncle and caretaker, a distinguished musician of Austrian decent, had once described such feelings to him before marriage to his aunt-

Ludwig immediately shook those thoughts from his head and gulped down the remainder of the water at his beside. No, his wounds and medication were at fault for his malfunctioning nervous system, and that was that.

He took in a long breath and leaned back against the downy comfort of the pillows. _Ja_. _That is all_. _Just from the medicine. And the wounds. Nothing else, certainly not._

He frowned as Feliciano yelled, "Good morning!" from upstairs, immediately followed by a pleasant, drowsy, Spanish-accented reply and another not-so-pleasant response of Italian profanities. Then came the sound of a pillow being thrown and Feliciano whimpering out a weak retaliation—Ludwig nearly attempted leaving his makeshift bed to investigate to see if everything was alright, but he soon heard the sound of high-heels on the stairs and laughter from above.

"If no one shows up, I expect the laundry to be put out, alright, you stupid bastard? And you, Feliciano—don't oversleep and miss your shift again! I don't want to have to deal with an angry Vash, 'cause last time he showed up with a damn gun! None of that this month, _capiche_?" Lovina yelled up the stairwell, though malice was absent from her voice and, from Ludwig's view, one side of her lips were quirked upward in a smile. However, when she poked her head in the doorway, that hint of humor was gone. "Remember, potato peels-for-brains, you lay one of your schnitzel-licking fingers on my brother..." Here she drew a straight line across her neck; Ludwig nodded in understanding and bowed his head. "_Ja_. I understand. It is..._capiche_." He attempted Italian with a hint of a smile, only to have Lovina make a face of disgust at butchering her language and flee the room, unleashing snarled curses as she went. He vaguely heard a door slam and gave a sigh of relief at her parting. He didn't quite understand where her hatred sprang from, but it certainly had a way of making a place that was otherwise upbeat feel as though he was trapped in a Mafia interrogation.

It was then he realized Feliciano had left an extra bread roll at his bedside table and, figuring a bit of bread couldn't hurt his tumultuous stomach, decided breakfast was served.

* * *

"_Buongiorno_, welcome to Marocchino—oh, it's you, Herr Lorinaitis. Ciao." Lovina said automatically as she adjusted the cafe for the morning and rubbed the remainders of sleep from her eyes. The dark-haired Lithuanian smiled, adjusted his uniform, and stepped inside-the very epitome of a person who did not want to offend. "_Buongiorno, _Ms. Lovina, and please, call me Toris." He explained softly, his Italian splotchy but a fair attempt at good pronunciation. _Unlike some Germans I know,_ Lovina thought wryly to herself while pouring a cup of coffee. "If you insist, Herr Toris. The usual?"

Toris smiled his polite, weak smile and took his regular seat with the delicacy of a man with every intention of being unobtrusive while remaining friendly; a rare trait of enlisted men in Parma. "I hope you've had a nice weekend, Ms. Lovina. Mine was a tad stressful, as you can imagine." Lovina chuckled her agreement and began the Lithuanian's favourite blend; it was an unusual mix of warm milk, a shot of expresso, and a blueberry. Toris Lorinaitis, Lovina had decided after a year of patronage on his behalf, was an odd man more complicated than his coffee of choice. He went far out of his way to remain inconspicuous but had a multitude of glittering medals upon his chest; he spoke softly though his words were profound; his eyes remained serious yet his facial expressions changed as the morning hours grew, and his entire being seemed to sigh with a strange happiness when speaking of his Polish friend. Lovina hadn't the heart to inform him that his position in the German military was certainly not going to aid 'Feliks' in any way, and though it could become grating at times, she enjoyed hearing someone speak so lovingly in times of war. That, and Lovina made it a point never to insult or degrade her customers...to their knowledge, anyhow.

"Here you go, Herr Toris—your favourite." Lovina said, breaking the peaceful quiet in the early-morning cafe. Toris smiled his too-old smile and pulled the cup towards him. "Thank you. I think I'll have a bread roll, too, if you don't mind. I'm a tad hungry this morning—I forgot breakfast." The brunet explained sheepishly, drawing the daily newspaper from his bag while the coffee cooled. Lovina nodded in understanding and began the necessary process; "Not a problem so long as you pay." She responded in a flat tone, biting back several very unprofessional remarks. Toris seemed to realize her displeasure and busied himself with the paper, chuckling nervously. "Of course. I apologize."

"No need-I should be the one apologizing. Ijust...had a rough morning." Lovina replied quickly, brushing her hair back into a ponytail with a strained smile; the Lithuanian officer's eyebrows furrowed with sympathy. "Oh. I see. That's unfortunate." Toris paused to stir his coffee, green eyes trailing to the window. Lovina allowed the soldier's mind to wander while she focused on completing the bread roll-making process, wishing her cafe owned a record player.

"By the way, Ms. Lovina...I was given an interesting mission over the weekend, and I wanted to ask you about it." The dark-haired officer said, turning his attention back to the cafe's owner. Lovina recognized the business-like tone in the man's voice and glanced up from her work, eyebrows raised. Toris smiled weakly at the attention and continued, his eyes downcast as he stirred his coffee. "It's just a simple question, nothing to worry about. You probably haven't even seen him, but the matter still stands that his airplane was last seen on its way to Parma, and I've been ordered to ask around."

"Here's your breakfast. Go on?" Lovina asked plainly while setting the plate of bread roll and butter before the Lithuanian. Toris nodded gratefully and took a sip of coffee before explaining himself; "I'm looking for an enlisted man by the name of Lieutenant Ludwig Van Blau—or Ludwig Beillschmidt. There is reason to believe the first name was an alias, though his brother claimed it was a mistake in birth certificates." Lovina, ever eager to destroy a German's reputation, pressed for details. "Maybe I've seen him somewhere. What did he look like?" Toris sighed and took another sip of his drink, looking displeased with the thought of exposing a man in such a way. "Well, Lieutenant Ludwig is...I suppose a good way to describe him would be Aryan. He's around 180 centimeters tall, twenty years old, short blonde hair, sharp features, bright blue eyes...oh, here, I have a picture!" The green-eyed soldier stopped to pull a picture from the inner confines of his military jacket and held it out dutifully to the Italian. "Does he look familiar to you, Ms. Lovina?"

Both colour and haughtiness drained from Lovina's face in her first glance at the photograph. Though the picture was monochromatic, there was no mistaking pale, ice-eyed Ludwig, the injured Luftwaffe pilot who had been staying under her roof for a total of four days. She felt her lips whisper a curse while her eyes stared, disbelieving, at the militaristic face captured in the photo. Ludwig. Ludwig Van Blau. He was a wanted man-wanted by the German army. What had he done?

Lovina hadn't realized she had spoken her thoughts until Toris answered them. "It's an interesting case, actually. His uncle-an Austrian-was found to be a Jew. He and his wife fled before the army could interrogate them, unfortunately...though their nephews, Ludwig and Gilbert Beillschmidt, became guilty by association. Can't have potential Jews in the German army, you know." Lovina hissed another curse, this time quieter, and set the photograph onto the counter. The dark-haired Lithuanian paused, chewing thoughtfully on his bread roll before moving onward with a frown, so immersed in thought as to disregard Lovina's expression; "And then there's the worrying matter that Lieutenant Ludwig was reported to be, well, doubting the Fuhrer's orders...and General Gilbert sometimes outright ignoring them when on missions." Toris quieted and glanced up for Lovina's response, though he immediately became concerned. "Ms. Lovina, are you alright? You're very pale."

Lovina swallowed the bile that had threatened to rise into her throat and shook her head. "I'm fine, Herr Toris, thank you. I just think I..." Her words broke off in the center as she relayed the complications of giving Ludwig Van Blau away. Firstly, the entire Vargas household could be singled out for hiding a wanted man; secondly, Feliciano would throw a fit if Ludwig left, Lovina wasn't entirely blind to the way her brother looked at the German; and thirdly, an event like that could immediately alert the Dutchman and the Englishman to Antonio's location.

She told herself this was entirely for her sake alone, and answered; "I think you should check Milano, Herr Toris. I've heard talk about runaways going there lately-heading for Switzerland. In any case, I haven't seen him, but I'll tell you if I do, alright?"

Toris paused for a moment, letting the information soak in before giving his thanks and finishing up his breakfast. Lovina forced a smile and began cleaning the cafe's counters, her stomach rolling with conflict.

_That potato bastard had better appreciate this, goddamn it_.

* * *

A/N: Bawww, poor Spain. Sucks to be him.

And yes, I killed off Belgium (aka, Louise in this fic). I'm sorry because she seems like a fun character, but it was a necessary plot device. And yes, Holland(Theodoor) was very close to and protective of his sister. Which is unfortunate for Spain. I'll tell how Holland and England met and elaborate on how Romano/a saved Spain's life in later chapters because this chapter has been long enough and I'm lazy. =3=

ANYHOO  
yaaaay Lithuania gets a cameo! As a German soldier!

I have my reasons, so please let me explain before you all kill me.  
Lithuania was occupied by both Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia in World War II. Lithuania, as I see it, was pretty angry at Poland after the Polish-Lithuanian war, and a few Lithuanians...well, sided with the Germans, I suppose. Correct me if I'm wrong, though, please.

Also, headcanon decrees that Austria is Jewish after I read this one fic that I forget the name right now, but it was good. And there's also the fact that Austria was pretty mixed-race back then. Maybe it still is, but I wouldn't know because I've never been to Austria ahaha! But I'm rambling, so...

Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks very much for reading! (oh man my A/Ns are so long...OTL)


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